


this strange place between awake and asleep

by daymarket



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Character Study, Dreamlike, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 16:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1556276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daymarket/pseuds/daymarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here, they are Marisa and Irene. Nothing more, nothing less.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this strange place between awake and asleep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chaila](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaila/gifts).



> Hiya, chaila! Here's the Marisa Coulter/Attolia crossover you asked for, though it may not be...uh...exactly what you think it's going to be. (I can tell you that it certainly isn't what _I_ thought it was going to be.) Er, the best way to read this fic is to not think too hard about it. Hopefully it works for you!

Perhaps it’s a dream. Privately, Irene considers it some strange taunt of the gods, while Marisa speaks eloquently of the witches of her country and the tricks they pull. Marisa uses the secrets of her world as a snare, using her words to lure in whatever benefit that she can. Irene listens to her speak, watching her carefully. She knows the value of silence, letting the words pour in even as she gives nothing back. It’s a battle of sorts, a test to better understand.

Still. No matter what the true facts of the matter are, the situation is such: there is the room, dimly lit by torchlight, and there, they have each other. For better or for worse.

It’s a strange situation, but neither of them have never been anything less than practical.

* * *

“You know,” Marisa says idly, “You really are quite pretty.” She lies on her stomach on the cool stone floor, her head laid on her folded arms. Beside her, the golden monkey grooms himself, unconcerned. “Your fiancé is a blind fool to miss it.”

“He’s a fool about many things,” Irene says. “His father talks to him about the barons day and night, but I’d be surprised if a single word of it sinks into his skull.” She looks down at her embroidery in her lap, and she wants to rend the fabric to pieces. Instead, she neatly threads the needle through the half-finished rose. Her hands are perfectly steady.

“Fools will be fools,” Marisa says, and she laughs, careless and wild. Her fingers curl lazily through the golden monkey’s fur, a soft, seductive gesture that would entrance many a lover. Irene envies her grace, her flawless femininity. Marisa rolls over, her hair falling in loose curls down her bare neck, and Irene follows the motion with a covert eye, keeping her head carefully bowed. A man wouldn’t notice her attention, but Marisa does. “What are you pondering, shadow princess?” she asks.

“Your own fiancé must be pleased with you,” Irene tells her. The words are carefully not bitter: the shadow princess is never bitter, only complacent. “He’s netted himself a fine prize.”

“He’s dull,” Marisa says, and the golden monkey gives a soft, contemptuous laugh. “He thinks I’m madly in love with him. In a way, he’s just as much a fool as yours.” She gives Irene an appraising look. “So if your fiancé won’t listen to his father, what does he listen to?”

“His wine cup,” Irene answers immediately. “His gold, his hunting, his hawks, his horse. He likes his pleasures, wherever he can take them.”

“He’ll grasp blindly for whatever he’s offered, then,” Marisa notes. Irene nods, and Marisa smiles, reminding Irene of a cat. “Have you offered yourself?”

“We are not all as tempting as you,” Irene says, her voice perfectly level.

“Yes, I _am_ tempting, en’t I,” Marisa says calmly. “But I have to make myself so, Irene, because I come from a disgraced family. I offer my charms and nothing more. But you— _you_ offer royalty. You offer power.”

“Power he’s stolen,” Irene tells her. “Power that will never be enough, not for the likes of him.”

“Power that’s rightfully yours. En’t you the crown princess?” She sits up and leans forward, and Irene can feel Marisa’s breath on her cheek. “People like me, we have to make our own power. People like you—you have to _claim_ it.”

Irene inhales. Marisa smells of fine perfume paid for with Coulter money, but there is a strange, almost metallic tang in the air. Beside her, the golden monkey growls low in his throat as she rakes her fingers through his fur, and Irene envies them their pleasure.

“He’s already claimed far more than his due,” Irene says quietly. “He drinks himself into a stupor on any occasion to celebrate, be it a successful hunt or a sparring victory—or the death of my father.”

“Your father tried to buy peace with your freedom,” Marisa says. Her eyelashes flutter. “Much like my father bought influence with mine. But these bargains mean nothing in the end, not unless you let them.”

She smiles. Carefully, Irene imitates her, her mouth stretching in a strange and unfamiliar sensation. Marisa is the master of smiles, from the flirtatious grin to the coy smirk. Irene prefers a subtler art. “Who is he?” Irene breathes.

The golden monkey laughs, and Marisa joins him in laughter. The sounds twine around each other, echoing off the walls of the chamber. Irene folds her hands in her lap, waiting patiently, and eventually they subside. “He’s a lord,” Marisa answers. “Dashing and wild and far more interesting than Edward. Oh, I’ll marry Edward, all the same, but I’ll be damned if he holds me back.” She tilts her head. “What about you? Will you break out of your gilded prison?”

Irene watches as the copper cascade of Marisa’s hair covers the faint red mark low near her collarbone. “My fiancé does love his pleasures,” she says at last.

“So make him choke on them,” Marisa says. The firelight’s reflection is bright in her eyes, giving them an almost unearthly red glow.

It suits her quite well.

* * *

She is the head of the General Oblation Board; she does not have time for idle dreaming. Asriel was a fool, and his bridge to the sky is a heresy. Marisa was a child, swept away by lavish daydreams, but she is Mrs. Coulter now, pioneer and leader. And yet, the memory of Asriel’s arms around her will not fade, no matter how hard she tries. Beside her, the golden monkey is shaking. There are marks where Stelmaria’s claws raked through his fur.

“You said no,” the woman across from her says. She’s Attolia now, her hair swept back in a fashion far more elaborate than anything Irene has ever worn. Her face is as if carved from marble, unearthly in its perfection. “Why?”

“He’s a dreamer,” Mrs. Coulter whispers in answer. “He thinks we can destroy the Authority.” She laughs, the sound broken and despairing even to her own ears, and the golden monkey keens in response. “He doesn’t understand their power, not the way I do. His dreams will come to nothing.”

Attolia does not move. “Marisa,” she says, and her voice is cool and remote. “Are you telling me this because you believe it? Or because you want to believe it?”

Mrs. Coulter looks up. Attolia regards her with a dispassionate eye, granting neither judgment nor mercy, and in a strange way, it gives Mrs. Coulter the strength she needs to straighten up and contain her despair. “The Church cannot be fought outright,” she says quietly. “Asriel wants to destroy them in a blaze of glory; his tactics always tended towards the melodramatic. They’ll ruin him.”

Attolia tilts her head. The light shifts across her face, softening the harsh planes. Though no less severe, she is a mere mortal now, and Mrs. Coulter marvels at the change. The golden monkey stirs restlessly in her arms, echoing their shared desire to reach out and trace the newly cast shadows. “Do you want to fight this church of yours, then?” Attolia asks her. “Force has never been our weapon of choice, after all.”

Mrs. Coulter shakes her head. “No,” she says, and she realizes just how true her answer is only after she’s spoken it. “There’s more to be gained by working with them. The church has done well by me thus far.”

Attolia’s lip lifts in the faintest sneer. “The favor of the gods is endlessly fickle,” she says. “What you think is a gift may be a curse in disguise.”

This, at least, is safe ground. “They’re not gods,” Mrs. Coulter says. She feels much calmer now, and her words are confident. “The church is made of men—cautious and craven men, at that. I’m not worried about losing _their_ favor.”

“Yet you turned your lover away,” Attolia notes.

“Yes,” Mrs. Coulter says. The golden monkey growls softly, and she smooths down his protest. “I’m not done with the church yet.” She bows her head. “Lovers are easy to acquire. Power is not.”

She can hear the faint shifting of fabric as Attolia moves. “So you will trade your love for power,” Attolia says. “An interesting choice.”

Mrs. Coulter frowns. “Would you not do the same?” she says bitterly. “I’m not entirely bereft, you know—I have Boreal still for pleasure. But love doesn’t last.” She swallows, feeling the words stick in her throat. “Asriel knows that, perhaps even better than I do. He has his dreams still. I’ll take mine.”

A delicate hand touches her face lightly, raising her head up to look into Attolia’s eyes. Marisa suddenly feels very young, uncertain in a way that feels utterly foreign. In her arms, the golden monkey shivers. “Despairing, Marisa?” Irene asks, and she sounds almost gentle. “That’s not like you.”

Irene’s hand is cool on her cheek. “I’m flattered you think so much of me,” Marisa breathes. “Are you implying something, Irene?”

Irene’s expression is pensive, almost sad, and Marisa wants to brush it away. “Perhaps love isn’t as meaningless as we once thought,” Irene says. She looks away.

Marisa studies her face, curious. “You’re speaking of the thief, en’t you,” she says, and Irene’s head moves in a fraction of a nod. “What has he stolen, Irene?”

“He’s stolen enough.” Irene’s voice is a bare whisper. “And given almost nothing back in return.” She pulls her hand away, and Marisa tries not to mourn the loss of the touch. “I suppose I should be fair. He’s unusually charitable, for a thief, but politics are complicated, and love even more so.”

“Can you reclaim what he has stolen?” Marisa asks.

Irene shrugs, the movement appearing forcedly casual to Marisa’s trained eye. “I cannot reclaim what was not mine to begin with.” She takes a breath. “But your circumstances are not mine,” she adds. “If there are no gods to bind you, then take what you can. Take it all, and leave nothing to chance.”

It sounds almost like a despairing plea. The golden monkey cries out softly in distress, and on impulse, Marisa reaches out and takes Irene’s hand. Irene looks at her, startled, and Marisa meets her questioning gaze resolutely.

She doesn’t pull away.

* * *

She’s falling, just like she has always been falling. The abyss is endless in its darkness, and the soft flicker of firelight is almost blinding at first. She closes her eyes and opens them, and there is the golden monkey, safe in her arms. There is Irene, casting long shadows by firelight.

“Do you know,” Marisa says to her. Her voice is light, almost conversational even as she and the golden monkey cling desperately to each other. “Saying no to a god is very easy when the circumstances are right.”

“Mm,” Irene says. “I suspect the consequences are less easy to bear.” Her smile is fond, though, taking the sting out of the words.

Marisa breathes in the warm scent of the golden monkey’s fur. “They do tend to get a little temperamental,” she says wryly. She sits down on the floor, patting the floor next to her. Irene joins her and lays her head on Marisa’s shoulder, the two of them as easy in grace as the children they never were. “I think I’m dying,” Marisa confesses at last. “Or perhaps I’m already dead.” She pauses. “The distinction tends to blur a little.”

For a long silence, perhaps eternity, there is nothing but the soft crackle of the flames. Then, Irene—remote, distant Irene—reaches out and embraces Marisa, her hand just barely ghosting the golden monkey’s fur. Marisa shivers and turns her head to look at Irene, eyes hungrily searching her face. “Stay?” Marisa asks softly.

“Yes,” Irene says. “I’ll stay.”


End file.
